Number 42

She always had
A teabag
In her ashtray,
Stabbed
By cigarette stubs,

She made love to chaos,

She had a tattoo
On her kneecap
And a birth-marked
Africa.

In her scorched hands
Lay comedy’s tricks
And she played them
One by one,
Dry as bones;

A life of grim times
In a three minute song,

A history of woe
In a wink.

In a cathedral nearby
They prayed for her type

But her type
Had no real need for prayers,

Watch her rest
After tales
And she’d tell you,

There’s
A loose copper pipe
In her chinked tickled brain

And if the price
Rises higher she’s selling.

3 Responses to “Number 42”

  1. What a captivating description! REally well done.

  2. Great story, vivid imagery. I really enjoyed the raw, harsh reality of this piece.

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